


Beginning Choreography

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Pas de Trois [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Autistic Will Graham, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Friendship, Kid Fic, Language Barrier, Language Delay, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sign Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: There are nine other children in the class, and they each have ten fingers, and ten feet fingers, and a shoe for each foot, which makes many shoes. His fellow students aren’t as adept as he is, not even the kindergartners, but Hannibal likes to see them smile and hear them laugh. Happy people are nice to be around, even if he is better than them.Hannibal doesn't like the boy he’s found hiding in the bathroom at dress rehearsal because he never laughs. There’s no smiling or frowning or teasing expression. Just nothing, a flat empty face, like a doll. Hannibal found him irritating immediately, not only due to his inability to read the boy, but because he’d interrupted the flow of class on his first day.(“He needs help socializing and learning to participate,” the woman had said to Hannibal’s teacher. “The class setting is what’s important, so it’s okay if he doesn’t dance for a while, or ever, for that matter.”Even Oscar the Grouch knew that was garbage.)***A stand-alone Hannigram fic for the prompts "black cat" from #Hannictober and "cute costumes" from #HannibalHallow.





	Beginning Choreography

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be chapter eight for _[Third Position](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266355)_ , but then there were suddenly 1400 words. Since this can absolutely stand by itself, here it is, my very first kidfic. I got cavities writing this.
> 
> Trigger warning for four-year-old Hannibal's slightly ableist thoughts because he's...well, y'know. Four.
> 
> Check out the prompt calendars for [#Hannictober](http://the-winnowing-wind.tumblr.com/post/165693825229/hannictober-2017-creative-calendar) and [#HannibalHallow](http://idontfindyouthatinteresting.co.uk/post/165691281915/hannibal-halloween-6-weeks-of-creation-so)!

Hannibal can count his age on his fingers, and he’s proud of that, though he refuses to answer with the expected, “I’m this many,” while holding up the requisite number. He didn’t spend long frustrating hours learning his one through ten in the correct order to do anything less than list his age off solemnly. If his audience can’t wait through a count of four, then Hannibal would rather not speak to them, anyway.

The ability to count has also helped Hannibal excel in the creative free movement class. There isn’t much actual dancing--no order, hardly any structure--but the few steps they are taught are easily retained because Hannibal can count them out. Legs are nothing but very large fingers, he’s decided. If each movement is a number, then he can dance all the way up to ten, and then it gets a bit fuzzy past eleven. Still, Hannibal’s the best, and the instructor dotes on him, and he happily soaks up the attention.

There are nine other children in the class, and they each have ten fingers, and ten feet fingers, and a shoe for each foot, which makes many shoes. His fellow students aren’t as adept as he is, not even the kindergartners, but Hannibal likes to see them smile and hear them laugh. Happy people are nice to be around, even if he is better than them.

However, Hannibal doesn't like the boy he’s found hiding in the bathroom at dress rehearsal--which none of them are even wearing dresses; the whole affair seems pointless when it’s done incorrectly--because he never laughs. There’s no smiling or frowning or teasing expression. Just nothing, a flat empty face, like a doll. Hannibal found him irritating immediately, not only due to his inability to read the boy, but because he’d interrupted the flow of class on his first day.

(“He needs help socializing and learning to participate,” the woman had said to Hannibal’s teacher. “The class setting is what’s important, so it’s okay if he doesn’t dance for a while, or ever, for that matter.”

Even Oscar the Grouch knew that was garbage.)

Hannibal would hate him, but Uncle told him that’s unkind. It’s difficult not to, though; he’s taken a significant portion of the teacher’s attention, trying to encourage him to join in, or at least to stop spinning himself into the wall. Worse still, there are now _two_ boys in class, so Hannibal isn’t unique or special anymore. If the new kid would just acknowledge that he’s ruining Hannibal’s class, that his apparent lack of feelings makes Hannibal uncomfortable, then maybe it would be easier to tolerate him.

But he’s showing an emotion right now, sitting and crying under the sink, which makes Hannibal think the boy might actually be a person. Hannibal crouches down to look at him, has to ball his hands up into fists to keep himself from fixing the boy’s unruly hair or straighten his crooked cat ears, trying to concentrate instead on the way his tears have made his eyeliner-drawn whiskers run down his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Hannibal asks. There’s snot on his upper lip, and a run in his tights that Hannibal can’t help but stare at. Why is he so _messy?_

His reply is nearly inaudible. “‘Tu,” he says, and that makes even less sense than his behavior in class.

“What’s a ‘tu’?”

_“‘Tu.”_

Hannibal holds up two fingers. “This many?” he asks.

The boy shakes his head. There’s a string of noises Hannibal doesn’t understand, and then he waves his hands around. Hannibal feels stupid, but he waves back with both hands, because his aunt says that’s the polite thing to do--to wave and say hello when someone says it first. She must be right, because the boy calms down a bit. Unfortunately, he starts making meaningful motions with his fingers, and Hannibal has no idea how to respond.

“Are you trying to snap? My uncle taught me to snap.”

Another shake of his head. He hums and drums his hands against his knees--Hannibal’s glad that he’s stopped crying and returned to his normal state--then snatches up one of Hannibal’s hands to draw on his palm with a fingertip. It feels like squiggles, indecipherable, and now Hannibal is as frustrated as _he_ is.

Hannibal stands, takes a quick glance in the mirror to make sure his own nose and whiskers remain tidy, then pulls the boy up to his feet. “Show me.”

Getting dragged across a slightly slippery tile floor hadn’t been part of the afternoon’s plan, nor was trying to keep up with the odd child from class. The boy’s pinned-on tail is hitting Hannibal’s legs as they run--it’s lopsided, too, like anything that touches him goes crooked. Someone tall tells them to stop running, but they keep going, off to the place backstage that their teacher said was called a “green room”.

It’s not green. Grown-ups are so confusing.

The boy walks right up to the rack of costumes and starts rifling through them, long scarves and sparkling tights and extra leotards for the teenagers. He pulls a glittery black tutu off of a hanger, clothespins flying off.

“‘Tu,’” and Hannibal nods--the word works for both of them now.

“Are you scared of tutus?”

He shakes his head; the cat ears slip further down. “Ah wah.”

When Hannibal doesn’t say anything, the boy moves his hands again, tutu jammed under his arm, palms up toward the ceiling, curling his fingers as he draws his hands back toward his body. He looks so plaintive, like he doesn’t understand why _Hannibal_ doesn’t understand. Being one-two-three wasn’t all that long ago, Hannibal supposes; he vaguely remembers thinking that everyone could see inside his head. Maybe that’s part of the problem, why the new kid doesn't speak out loud, because--

 _“Ohhhh._ You talk with your hands.” It isn’t so strange an idea; dance is like talking with feet when legs are large fingers.

The boy _grins,_ the first time Hannibal’s ever seen him happy, and he can’t help but smile back.

Hannibal thinks, harder than he ever has, harder than trying to write the lines that say his name. “You want the tutu?”

More nodding, more babbling. It _is_ a nice tutu.

“I think they’re for the girl cats,” says Hannibal. The boy hugs the tutu to his chest. He looks sad again, and Hannibal suddenly can’t stand it, seeing him sad. Someone old must have told him he couldn't have it. Probably a middle schooler. Taking a deep breath, putting his hands on his hips, Hannibal says, “Well I’m the oldest one here, so I say that you can be a girl cat.”

Hannibal helps him put it on--it takes a minute to figure out if it goes from the ground up or the sky down, but they manage. He’s surprised about how nice it looks, how much he likes it, so when the boy pulls another one off the rack and hands it to Hannibal, he puts it on without hesitation. The boy's ears and tail are still falling out of place, and his face is a disaster, but Hannibal does his best to fix everything. It might be the most still Hannibal's ever seen him.

When they leave the room that isn’t green, he grabs Hannibal's hand again, and Hannibal quickly decides that he likes that even more than the tutu.

Their teacher makes a funny face at them, then shakes her head, laughing, and puts the class in line. Hannibal’s usual dance partner scowls, but she’s a kindergartner, so Hannibal thinks she’s supposed to do that. The new boy is a better partner, anyway, which is confusing, considering how terrible he is in class. Here, on the stage, their elbows linked together, he’s _wonderful._ They flow together, and Hannibal thinks it must be magic, how the boy can dance with his eyes closed as long as he and Hannibal are touching.The instructor even comes over to say how lovely the boy danced, and gives him a big hug, telling him over and over how good he was. Hannibal waits for his own praise expectantly, and then she gives him a big hug, too.

“What’s your name?” Hannibal asks his new partner, watching him spin in his imaginary music box. “Mine’s Hannibal.”

He stops long enough to look in Hannibal's eyes for the first time. “Wi,” he says.

Hannibal thinks “Wi” is an excellent name, because it sounds like "with," and "with” is a beautiful word, now that he has a friend to make it real.

**Author's Note:**

> [[crossposted to tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/166408598784/hannictober-black-cathannibalhallow-cute)]
> 
> Interesting fact: Will's autism and speech delay are modeled after my kiddo's. He's such a good bean, though not even _remotely_ as shy as Will. :D
> 
> ***
> 
> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


End file.
